


Fathers, Be Good

by daggerpen



Category: DCU, DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-03 21:04:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daggerpen/pseuds/daggerpen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jason reacts to the events of Batman Inc. #8. Please do not read it if you do not know the spoilers. This fic is basically just angst and violence, be advised. Those of you who know the spoilers can probably guess what's in here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fathers, Be Good

**Author's Note:**

> Just to make sure you're warned, this fic contains the aftermath of Damian Wayne's death, violence, and a father's grief. I don’t ordinarily write in the New 52, but... I just... I had to.
> 
> I’m so sorry.

It’s been three hours since the funeral. It had been a quiet affair, the turnout small- only members of the family, one person conspicuously absent. Bruce had not really expected him to attend. His grieving will come later, he knows.

The others had not stayed long after the service, each retreating to mourn in their own way. Bruce had returned to his room, sitting on his bed and just turning the photograph over and over in his hands. A family portrait, taken scant months ago. It’s hard to believe what’s happened to them, now. How he’d failed them all again.

He sits, and he waits.

Jason does not disappoint.

Bruce does not stop him as Jason's hand goes for his throat, does nothing as the fingers seize tight around his windpipe and crush until his vision begins to swim.

The boy releases him just as the world begins to turn black, and then there are stars behind his eyes as Jason's fist drives into his nose, breaking the bone with a loud crack, and Bruce does nothing, offers no resistance as Jason strikes him again and again, spitting words of fury and pain that he cannot hear.

He is pinned to the wall now, Jason’s arm against his neck. Bruce closes his eyes and waits.

“You son of a bitch,” Jason says, the first words Bruce can make out through his ringing ears. He says nothing, and Jason hits him again, a haymaker across his jaw.

“How old was he, Bruce?” Jason asks. “How long did he get before you turned him into _another. Goddamned. Soldier?!_ ”

He does not respond. He has no words for this. He cannot bring himself to utter the hollow rationalizations, the meager excuses he had used to justify endangering the life of another child, another son. ‘He’s trained for this from birth.’ ‘It’s all he knows.’ ‘He will never have a normal childhood.’

And now he never will. Bruce had robbed him of that. Damian had come so far in so short a time, had learned to suppress his training and live with his family, to heal and grow. And now, he will never see his thirteenth birthday. Never again spar with Dick, or play fetch with Titus, or bicker with Tim. He’s lost another son, and unlike Jason, Damian may never get a second chance. Even if he does, will he truly be the same? What has been stolen from him, by Bruce’s stupid, _selfish_ actions? By his carelessness?

His son.

His fault.

Jason throws him to the floor, and he makes no move to defend himself as Jason drives his boot into his stomach, once, twice, three times. Would a crowbar be more fitting?

“I should have been the last.” Jason pins him to the floor, rage and grief across his face. “I should have been the last goddamn Robin you let die.”

He knows.

“You deserve this,” Jason snarls, bringing his fist back once more.

He knows.

Jason strikes at random, breaking ribs and leaving raw bruises. Bruce does not even cry out as the pain continues, does not even look at his son until he feels the cold metal pressing under his jaw. He opens his eyes, at last meeting Jason’s gaze.

“How long until the next one, Bruce?” he asks. “How long before you find another goddamn kid to be your human shield?”

“Never,” he says, his voice quiet and raw. “Never again.”

“You say that after me, too?” Jason spits. Bruce does not answer.

His son’s finger twitches on the gun’s trigger, not quite firing, before it relaxes. Jason sneers.

The boy’s face is beside his ear, the words quiet and, for the first time, steady. “Live with it,” Jason curses him, and removes the gun. Bruce supposes it’s for the best. He doesn’t want Jason to have his blood on his hands. There’s enough there already. Jason stands, walking towards the window. “The rest of us have to,” he says.

He knows.

God help him, he knows.


End file.
